


the direction in which roots grow (if we may follow)

by PixiePaint



Series: Drarryland 2019 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drarryland 2019, Hurt, M/M, Melancholy, Nostalgia, Potions, Scarring, Scars, drarryland, guilty harry, lots and lots of angst, past mistakes, prompt, scarred Draco, trying to fix the past, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17967989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixiePaint/pseuds/PixiePaint
Summary: In the vast abyss, before even time was wretched into rational knowledge, the Earth burned ferociously. Chemical chariots raced each other across incendiary skies, dust billowing wails behind them, weaving helix strands and foreign genomes into infinite lattices of possibilities. The creations expanded and consumed, crossing the biotics that were slowly gaining consciousness; eventually, everything ceased to roam, and the first plant delivered a breath of oxygen.





	the direction in which roots grow (if we may follow)

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic for Drarryland 2019!
> 
> prompt: angst/potions, 419-914 word count, song inspo: "Chariots" by Paper Route
> 
> big thanks to [kristinabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristinabird/pseuds/Kristinabird) for beta-ing this!

In the vast abyss, before even time was wretched into rational knowledge, the Earth burned ferociously. Chemical chariots raced each other across incendiary skies, dust billowing wails behind them, weaving helix strands and foreign genomes into infinite lattices of possibilities. The creations expanded and consumed, crossing the biotics that were slowly gaining consciousness; eventually, everything ceased to roam, and the first plant delivered a breath of oxygen.

 

The broad variety of flora still awed Harry; he had grown up accustomed to glossy, jade-green leaves protruding from styrofoam soil. Now, under the omniscient moon, he spent most of his nights abstractedly gazing at softly powdered dittany leaves, nimble fluxweed sprouts, and budding hellebore flowers. Besotted by ethereally silver light, the greenhouse had glided its glass doors wide for him, offering abundant resources. No person nor object could bear to deny his bolted scar, truly, except for one enigma: a pallid, abstruse silhouette with too many blemishes to even fathom submission. Thus, Harry continued his silent endeavors in the gardening plots, bang scruff reaching down to his brows.

 

//

 

_ The potion cupboards had been Aloha-mora’d, chained, and sealed with a strong incantation (not by the school’s strictures, but by Professor Snape’s personal beliefs). Very few students were allowed access to the cupboards after class. Draco was one of those students; Harry was not. _

 

_ He had shrouded himself in his cloak that night, hidden from all of Hogwarts’ careful eyes, intent on lifting a jar of mugwort powder for some mischief or the like. He couldn’t quite recall the motive, but it was long forgotten regardless. As soon as he had snuck into the arcane classroom, glasses pushed up and readied, he was not saluted by the typical darkness. In the murkiness’ stead, an icy lantern keyed the room into despondency, barely lit enough to illuminate its owner: in the very far corner, hips gently but brokenly hunched over the table’s edge, stood Draco Malfoy. Shirtless. _

 

_ Harry may have startled a bit at first, drinking in the pale skin greedily, but his attraction was very quickly replaced with distress. Angry, crimson scars lined Draco’s back, dotted his spine, and curved into his prominent shoulder blades, all of them eventually stretching down into the confines of his belt. Raised, white frameworks interlaced with the angrier marks, the implications hauntingly contributing to the affliction. When Draco tilted his body upward, jaunty fingers attempting to smooth out his scarred chest, the scars grew further and further across his skin, and Harry was suddenly frightened that they would never end. _

 

_ Draco had meticulously dipped two fingers into the arctic-blue cream again and rubbed it into his skin with a precision that could only stem from practice. Harry curled his fingernails into his palm and did the only thing he couldn’t fathom: he bolted. _

 

_ If Draco had heard the hastily shut door or quickened footsteps, he said nothing. _

 

//

 

Harry began arriving to class suspiciously early, pockets heavy and floral, insisting that he become the designated ‘ingredient retriever’ in his table’s partnership. Ron heartily agreed.

 

He always used more time in the cupboard than any other student, door firmly shut as he lingered there for several minutes each class. When he left, arms stuffed with various bits and bottles, the bounty was nearly enough to distract from his emptied pouches.

 

Unrelatedly, restorative herbs and ingredients started appearing: dried, crushed billywigs quickly teemed out of their jars, horseradish powder scattered across the pristine floors, and even fresh lady’s mantle flowers piled up in the few crevices left on the shelves. Every few days, a new herb would appear, dew still evaporating off of its delicately picked leaves. No-one complained about the surplus of components, but oddly enough, the herbs brought were rarely utilized in class. They were all related to biology, often curative properties that would be better suited for Madam Pomfrey’s office. Snape tilted his nose and scoffed each time a bicorn horn would be added to the ever-growing collection, but even he wouldn’t turn away extras.

 

Draco eyed the cupboards carefully, tugging the hem of his shirt’s cuffs farther down each time Harry emerged from them. Amidst the abundance, a quiet nostalgia brewed slowly, bubbling to the tip of the cauldron but never spilling over…

 

//

 

Despite his half-hearted efforts, Harry couldn’t stop himself from sneaking back to the cupboards every few days, discreetly peering in with firm-set brows and guilty hands. He blamed it on his impulsiveness, but the issue was much more tangible than that: each time he saw Draco’s back, the lack of distinctions utterly crushed him. There was no clear difference between the Sectumsempra’d scars, the lashes of disobedience, and the hard, jagged lines that bled into the gory patch where a skull-snake used to slink… it all meshed together, and he could never manage to shake away the ensuing pressure in his chest.

 

Some of it was his fault, and some of it wasn’t, but Harry ignored the distinction just as the indistinguishably horrid scars did. He ambled to the greenhouse each night and did the only thing he  _ could  _ fathom: he watered the shaky roots and let them grow.


End file.
